Saturday Nights
by Sleeves
Summary: Every time Stan decides to drink himself stupid, Kyle will be there for him. Style one-shot.


_A/N: _Wanted to write Drunk Stan. That is all.

**Saturday Nights**

―

Kyle never felt totally comfortable at parties like this. It wasn't that he didn't like to have fun or was totally abstinent when it came to alcohol, but the thing was, he _had _to stay sober whether he liked it or not, and he _had _to show up no matter how much he might like to spend a cozy Saturday night in bed reading and drinking tea.

Tonight, the party was at Token's. Everyone always got excited whenever his parents left for the weekend. He had this incredible sound system with bass levels that shook the house and multicolored strobe lights that blinked in time with the music. And what Kyle had thought at first was a whole shitload of smoke from cigarettes or weed actually turned out to be a fucking _fog machine_. In addition to Token's fancy setup, there were tons of available rooms to sneak off to once the seemingly infinite supply of booze mixed with the equally vast and powerful fleet of raging hormones. There was a reason why everyone loved parties at the rich kid's house.

But right now, there were about a thousand other places Kyle would rather be. There was only one reason why he'd dragged himself here in the first place, but it was a really important one.

"Kyle!" Stan approached him with a staggering sort of waltz, a tipping shot glass pinched delicately between his fingers and a beer can clutched in his opposite fist. "Oh man, Kyle, _Kyle_."

His words were thick and sloppy, stuck to his tongue. He slowed himself down, drawing out Kyle's name, "_Kyyyle_. Dude. I'm, like, so fuckin' wasted."

"I see that," Kyle said dryly. Stan's brown jacket was unbuttoned, hanging off his left shoulder and exposing a heavily stained Terrance and Phillip t-shirt. His hat had gone missing and his dark hair was sticking up at odd angles, as if he had been running his fingers through it all night. He moved his eyes between the two drinks occupying his hands before deciding to toss them both aside, earning an irritated "Watch it, asshole!" from Bebe, who had Kenny pinned to the floor.

Stan ignored them, flinging himself into Kyle's arms.

"Dude, what the hell!" Kyle recoiled as Stan wrapped his arms around his back and buried his head against Kyle's chest. "Are you _crying_?"

"I'm so happy to see you, dude," Stan wailed into Kyle's jacket. "I'm so―fuckin'―happy to see you n' your stupid hat."

"You and Wendy broke up again, huh?" Kyle patted Stan's head a little and sighed. He'd been doing this ever since Stan had gotten completely wasted one post-breakup night last year, tried to drive to Wendy's to beg her to take him back, and crashed his car into a streetlight, breaking his arm and a couple ribs. Despite his reputation, Stan wasn't really as much of an alcoholic as most people thought, but on nights like these, he sure knew how to drink himself into oblivion. Kyle hated the whole routine of coming to rescue his drunken best friend, of course, and he was nowhere near saintly about it―he always made sure to give Stan hell in the morning―but it wasn't worth storming out and letting Stan risk his life over something stupid.

"Dude, maybe you should sit down," Kyle suggested, straining under the weight of Stan's body.

"Nah―nah, dude, come on." Stan straightened up, grabbing Kyle's hand. "Come dance with me."

He laughed at the grudging crinkle between Kyle's eyebrows and pressed his fingers to Kyle's forehead, forcing his brows apart. "Don't be like that, dude. C'_mon_."

Stan dragged him to an open area of the crowded floor and started bobbing his head to the beat of the music, throwing his arms everywhere and tripping over his own legs.

"When I come up in the cluuuuub, I'm actin' maaad DUMB," Stan belted, swaying on his feet. "Dude. I fuckin' LOVE this song."

He edged up to a very stationary Kyle, bouncing back and forth against him. When Kyle still didn't move, Stan pressed his body flush against Kyle's, still dipping a little with the music, and threw his head over Kyle's shoulder, slurring into his ear, "I―_love_ you, dude."

Kyle froze, his breath catching in his throat. He must have heard those words from Stan about a thousand times, but they always seemed to get to him.

Stan laughed, pulling away to dance with himself again, adding offhandedly, "You're a piece a' shit, though, dude, fuck you. _Dance._"

Kyle heaved an irritated sigh and did some half-hearted jazz hands for a few seconds, which seemed to satisfy Stan, who nodded his approval and said, "That's some rad shit. I love you, man."

It only took a few more minutes of drunken spinning and fist-pumping for Stan to tire himself out and wander away to slump against the nearest wall, pulling his legs to his chest and staring dejectedly down at his jeans. Grateful for the excuse to finally extract himself from the heart of the room full of intoxicated teenagers, Kyle wound through the crowd after Stan and sat down beside him.

Stan was already about to cry. He tried to blink away the tears that pricked at the corners of his eyes, but they spilled down his cheeks and dotted his pants.

Kyle rubbed gentle circles on Stan's back. This was usually the part where Stan kissed him, threw up, and passed out. Kyle's stomach reeled at the thought. It had happened so many―_too _many―times before, and still, those butterflies wouldn't leave. He never wanted Stan to kiss him like this, tasting like tears and cheap beer and heartbreak. But then, he never wanted to come to these parties, either.

"Kyle," Stan said, his voice broken. He looked so run-down, so pathetic with his mouth open a little, its corners turned down with sadness, fixing Kyle with the type of tearful doe-eyed stare only Stan could pull off. "I hate this."

"Me too," Kyle told him.

"_Kyle_," Stan whimpered, cupping Kyle's cheek and squinting at him through blurry eyes. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Kyle's, tasting just as drunk and sad as he had last time.

"I love you," Stan slurred as he pulled away, staring at Kyle with unfocused eyes. Stan's face was very pale, almost a little green. He turned away, shuddered, heaved, and then vomited all over himself, groaning and passing out after the entire contents of his stomach had been emptied.

Kyle sighed. He knew he ought to just ditch, teach Stan a lesson by leaving him to wake up in the morning covered in puke and feeling like a wreck, unable to remember a shred of what had happened the night before because he'd been an idiot and decided to drown himself in booze. But Kyle couldn't do that. Not to his Super Best Friend.

Instead, he would find Stan's lost hat, clean him up, and drive him home. Kyle sighed again, running a hand through Stan's tangled hair. Another Saturday night, another drunken display of affection Stan wouldn't remember, another kiss Kyle would bury with all the others and keep locked up in his memory.


End file.
